You've Been Gone For Too Long
by loveless9
Summary: Sherlock has been gone for a year and it's driving John into depression. Late at night, John imagines Sherlock and things don't turn out so sweet. Rated T for violence reference. Inspired by the song 9 Crimes by Damien Rice.


The flat felt extremely cold, colder than it has ever been in any winter. John reached over to the end table and grabbed a neon orange bottle filled with little white pills. He popped the lid open and dumped some in his mouth. He didn't know how many, and didn't quite care. This new flat, far away from 221B was extremely lonely without a certain detective bumbling around. It had been almost a year since Sherlock threw himself off of a building to quickly fall to his last breath. Every night the words would play over and over inside his head.

_Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop_

Those words made John shiver and shake as a tear slowly and quietly ran down his cheek. He had that whole conversation memorized in his head. Every word, every breath, everything about Sherlock in his last moments. John remembered Sherlock reaching out to his with his long, pale hand.

_This phone call, it's my note. That's what people do don't they- leave a note. _

John's fists balled up, his knuckles turning white. He closed his eyes trying to have the thoughts flee from his head, but they only returned with full force. Sherlock pushing himself off the ledge and plummeting. Falling quickly, though the shocked caused his to see every second like it was an eternity

John let out loud cries, he sobbed into his hands, as the fire place roared next to him. He didn't know what to do. The doctor hadn't eaten in days; sleep was no longer an option since he only had nightmares of Sherlock. He didn't understand this. He really didn't.

John never thought he would feel so fondly of someone like he did with Sherlock Holmes. They were never a couple; it was questionable if they were even friends. Flat mates was all they really were. Sherlock didn't have any friends, he said so himself. He was just a robot, a man married to his work.

The doctor lifted his head and let out a deep sigh, trying to stop himself from crying. He wasn't successful, he continued to sob loudly. He had so much of this pent up frustration he didn't know what to do with. All these thoughts ran through his head quickly, faster and faster. There was so much stress, no sleep, everything, till eventually John reached for the closest thing he could grab and threw it against the wall.

He watched as the empty cup of tea shattered on the impact with the wall, dull orange glass pieces laid on the ground. John sighed and just stood there in front of his deep red arm chair. John huffed and puffed as adrenalin kicked through his system, when a small whisper could be heard from behind his left ear.

_"What was that for,"_ John quickly whipped around to see the rest of the empty flat. Upon this sight, he felt defeated and fell back into his chair with a thud. The voice was silk, but it wasn't the real silk he had been wishing for, during this long year.

_"I'm not really here John," _said the voice behind his ear.

"Yeah I know," John said out-loud, not caring if he was really talking to no one.

_"Than how can you hear me?" _asked the voice of a brown haired man.

"A mixture of lack of sleep, and a side affect of all the pills," John sighed reaching down to take more.

_"Good, you're still as smart as I left you," _cooed the voice, _"don't take anymore."_

His voice went from seductive and chill, to stern in a matter of seconds. John just stared at the pills he held in his hand, "Why?"

_"Anymore of those and you'll end up like me, and trust me John, no one wants to be like me."_

"Maybe I do want to be like you Sherlock," John said loudly, "I'm tired of living my life day to day and getting no results. That is why I went with you on all your adventures. I wanted something new, something fun in my life and now I have nothing Sherlock. I have nothing, I have no one."

John heard the whisper sigh, a cool breeze blew through.

_"I don't know what to say John, I really don't. I know that you are a smart man and any decision you make you look at all the possibilities. You also were quite a stubborn one, and your thoughts can't be swayed with just mere words."_

John closed his eyes for a moment and tried to imagine Sherlock standing next to the chair that he sat in. He imagined, Sherlock placing his hand lightly on John's shoulder with the words that fell out of this mouth. The light whispers let goose-bumps rise on his skin. He imagined Sherlock wearing a long trench coat and the blue scarf tied under his neck. The image should of made John smile, should have made him happy that he could still see Sherlock, but in all reality it only made him sadder. It only reminded him that Sherlock was gone, reminded him of the times they spent together and how it was all gone with one bad fall. John began to cry again.

_"Please don't cry John," _said the figment Sherlock, he bent down and lightly grabbed John's face in his hands, "_It's going to be alright."_

John didn't believe him, "How do you know? You're only a ghost, a shadow on the wall, your voice is in my head and you aren't real."

They both sighed. John felt like he was giving up, he was done with everything. He looked over at his desk. Piles of books and old papers were scattered all over. The doctor took a light stride and walked over. Sherlock's shadow followed. John stood in front of the office chair that sat behind the desk. Sherlock's shadow looked over John and read his face very clearly and his motive wasn't so sweet.

_"Please don't do this John,"_ Said Sherlock cocking his head to the side.

John's face never changed as he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small silver key. It seemed to glow even with the lack of light in the flat. John bent down and stuck the key in the last drawer of the desk. When it was successfully open all that lay in the drawer was a small gray handgun. It sat in the bottom of the drawer gathering dust over time. John had inherited the small gun from his father after he passed. It was his father's favorite and he never parted from it. John's face never changed, but in John's mind Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John gently grasped the gun in his hand as well as the ammunition clip that laid next to it. He loaded the gun and turned the safety off. Turing around he saw Sherlock's apparition who stood there with no expression on his face, like he always did. Sherlock, the man with no emotion. The doctor looked down, the gun was loaded, the safety was off, and when everything was correct he placed the barrel of the gun next to his temple. John was shaking as he closed his eyes and let tears run down his face. Sherlock seemed to walk closer to John, and embracing him in a hug. John tried to enjoy this but, he knew it was a fake and just couldn't bring himself to hug back. When Sherlock' apparition released him, Sherlock looked at John and gave a weary smile.

"_I'll be waiting for you John."_

John let a small tear filled smile spread across his lips, "Goodbye Sherlock."

John pulled the trigger and a loud bang rang through the entire flat. The last thing John remembered was falling to the floor and his vision start to fade.


End file.
